Chapter Text
Susurrus (noun): a soft, low noise like rustling, or a whisper.
The grass tickles your calves when the breeze comes, flowing down from the mountains and cresting atop the rolling hills you call home. It brings a smile to your face, and you inhale, catching hints of pollen and the wildflowers that grow around you in the air. Spring has finally come to the valley, and you’re glad. It means the sun is shining, and the birds are singing, and the sky is finally blue after months of frosty cold. It also means flowers, which you pick and sell at the marketplace for a little extra spending money. They aren’t extremely profitable but always make you enough to cover necessities and sometimes a little something more.
The wind rustles again, blowing your skirts up gently and you huff as you smooth them back down. You almost have enough flowers to make a couple bouquets to sell – you only need about a good fistful more. Even as the breeze seems to pick up now, flattening patches of grass in a pattern only known to the wind, you continue walking. Fleetingly, you think maybe you have enough to go home now, but you know that you don’t really. Not if you want to actually make any sort of profit, and this past winter was difficult – in more ways than one.
Below-freezing temperatures, dying livestock, and threats of war tearing across the country were all rampant throughout the winter, keeping everyone on their toes. Now that the cold had finally been blown away by the same wind that buffets you now, everyone’s demeanor seemed to be on the rise.
Even still, you remained slightly on edge. Something in the back of your mind always seems to be whispering messages of vigilance, and wariness. You usually brush it off, even when these same warnings come spoken to you, outside of your own mind. It scares you to think that the wind might be whispering to you, especially when it tells you to leave, to run towards the mountains and to never look back.
You shake off the memories and turn back to your flowers. Worrying about what it all might mean can be saved for a different day. Right now, you just need to focus on meeting your self-imposed quota and getting back to the village before nightfall. After dark was not a safe time to be out beyond the walls of the village with the menagerie of creatures that stalked the hillsides. Even though you know it’s only about mid-day, from experience you’re aware that the sun can set faster than one expects. All the more reason to hurry up, in your opinion.
But, as you reach to pluck more flowers from the field, the whispering voices return. They harrow you, riding on the wind that whips through your hair and twining into your ears, repeating the same message over and over.
Run.
Your eyes widen as you fight back the immediate wave of shock and fear that washes over you. Glancing around, you check to make sure that nothing is creeping up on you, that somehow another villager’s voice isn’t catching on the wind instead.
Not a soul is around you.
Run for the mountains. Danger is coming.
The voice whispers again, urgency laden in its tone. You straighten and place the flower you just found in your basket, looking around again.
Still a warm, spring day. Sun shining in the sky, and light dusting of clouds on the horizon. No visible danger. What is it warning you of?
And, more importantly, should you be listening?
You stand, contemplating your options. Either make the (probably foolish) decision to trust this phantom voice in your head or stay put (certainly the safer option). As you think, the voice returns, urging you again to run. Towards the mountains, away from home, away from everything you’ve ever known.
Why, is all you want to know, even as you feel the allure of those tall peaks in front of you drawing you closer. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to follow for now, see if there was anything to be found at the base of the mountain. You might find a new kind of rare wildflower to sell at an outrageous price, after all.
As you take a hesitant step forward towards the mountains, you cast one glance over your shoulder, back towards the village, and stop in your tracks.
Where your village once stood now rises big black clouds of billowing smoke, rising into the air, quickly casting a shadow over the whole valley. You choke back a scream, all thoughts now consumed by concern for your friends and family.
Turning away from the mountains, you begin striding down the hillside, doing your best to ignore the pleading voice that tells you not to. Until you stop. Halfway down the absolutely terrifying absurdity of your situation hits you, and you turn again, contemplating your choices. The voice still screams in your head. No, it tells you, turn back, back towards the mountains, save yourself. Would it really be safer there? Or would it just be another illusion of safety, like your village as it is razed to the ground?
The wind doesn’t give you time to decide, whipping around your ankles and stumbling you further towards the mountain. You catch yourself, steadying your feet beneath you. Even though your heart aches with the thought of wanting to save those who can be helped, you realize that you don’t have a choice. The voice urges you again, as you take another step towards the mountain. You tell yourself that someone else down there in the village will come to the rescue of those who cannot save themselves. It is a cheap consolation, and you know it – but your situation leaves you no other option.
Taking one last longing glance at the blazing remains of your home, you continue up the hills, into the crags between the rocky peaks. Peaks where the air is colder, and plants are sparse. You have little-to-no knowledge about what lies within these mountains – only superstitions and old-wives' tales your mother used to tell about an old god who lives dormant, somewhere in the heart of the rock. As you finally crest the grassy peak of the hills and take your first step onto solid stone, you pray you won’t have to find out.